


Breakfast in the Anderfels

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Childhood, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sweet vignette of Anders as a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast in the Anderfels

The boy's mother has butcher's hands with red, wide palms and stubby fingers, but they are as deft as those of a pickpocket. She can crack an egg with such a delicate touch that the shell splits evenly down the center. Potato peels come off the vegetable in long, spiraling curls, and no tomato is ever bruised in her kitchen.    
  
She is a practical woman; she makes mince and sausage, potatoes and thick, starchy noodles. She wastes no time with salads, preferring instead to pickle her vegetables for the winter, filling the house with the sharp scents of vinegar and garlic for days. When she bakes, which is often, she makes hearty tarts and crumbles, full of diced apple or plum, with a crust thick enough to eat as a meal on its own.       
  
Mornings in that kitchen are the boy's favorite. He likes to sit at the rough hewn wooden table and watch his mother work her particular brand of culinary magic. The air smells like boiling eggs and yeast, as his mother has been awake for hours before him to start the long process of proofing dough for homemade bread. It also smells like weak tea and strong coffee, the former preferred by his father, the latter by his mother. 

The boy’s mother is not a beautiful woman, not in the traditional sense of the word, but to him, she is the loveliest thing he has ever seen. She wears her long blond hair up in a functional bun, piled high on her head with no errant strands even after a long day in front of the stove. She wears gingham and flannel, depending on the weather, and always an apron to protect those sensible dresses. Despite her severe appearance, she has a gentle face, with a soft brow and a small smile with warmth that outshines its size.    
  
His mother places a warm hard-boiled egg in front of him that is almost the size of his fist. She cracks it with a spoon and gives him a small wooden plate to hold the shell as he peels it slowly with long, delicate fingers that don’t resemble his mother’s in the least. There is also a slab of buttered toast along with a stone-fired cup of thick, fatty milk. Sometimes there are frycakes and apples, sometimes plums and porridge, or rashers of bacon and good, smokey, Anderfels sausage, but today is a lighter day.    
  
Today the snow is falling, fat flakes the size of chickens floating past the opaque windows, piling up outside in drifts and valleys. Today, the boy will stay inside, in the kitchen, where the warmth is strongest. He will page through books with crude illustrations of dragons and princesses, and he will play with blocks and practice his letters while his mother looks over his shoulder, her little smile one of pride and love. She will ruffle his hair with hands full of flour before going back to the bread.    
  
When she’s done, when the bread is cooling and there are precious few hours in between dinner and supper, she will pull her rocking chair into the kitchen and gather the boy into her lap. She will read from the book, letting the boy decide which story, although he always chooses the same few about heroic, selfless knights in gleaming armor, and she will read to him until the slow rocking and hot stove makes him doze off.    
  
She will hold this boy, her son, with that little smile, proud and pleased, and silently amazed at the wonder that he is both her, and not her. 


End file.
